


j’ai tant dansé pour toi

by Lobo_Loca



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bisexual Jack, Coming Out, Fluff, Future Fic, Get Together, Get Together is in part 2, Humor, M/M, Part 1 is Jack wistfully reminenscing and deciding to come out, Pie, because seriously, mild swearing, now with bittersweet alternative ending in part 3, they're hockey players
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4916449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobo_Loca/pseuds/Lobo_Loca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after graduating Samwell, Jack decides to come out. <br/>A few months later, Bitty asks him out with the help of Bob and pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. si tu dors seul ce soir

**Author's Note:**

> I should be working on any number of wips, but I was listening to "Saint-Laurent" by Coeur De Pirate on repeat and this happened. Titles are from lyrics from "Saint-Laurent."
> 
> Also my first Check Please! fanfic so constructive criticism welcome!

For the first time in long time, Jack wandered along Boulevard Saint Laurent. Not that wandering it at quarter to three in the morning was a particularly bright idea, even if it was New Year’s Day, but he figured he’d spent enough time with away games he deserved to drink in the city while he had the chance.

Signing with the Habs had been half-dream, half-nightmare, all of the expectations of being Bad Bob Zimmerman’s son heaped on his shoulder. Jack had missed Montreal, had needed to get out of Providence and away from Samwell. Setting foot in the Haus seemed wrong without the team Jack had known and led through the playoffs. There were too many words left unsaid there, too many wasted opportunities, too many regrets.

Jack worried enough about what ifs without the remainders that him and Bitty was a what if that could’ve been a reality if Jack had been willing to risk it, to put himself out there and attempt a romantic relationship. But there was a certain amount of relief when he realized that he wouldn’t force Bitty back into the closet. That for all his selfish daydreams, Jack wasn’t self-centered enough to hurt Bitty.

Well, no more than he had at Samwell, showing off and flirting and stringing Bitty along on coffee and study not-dates and falling like a ton bricks without a word to hint at his intentions. That had been completely selfish, stealing as much of Bitty’s attention for himself as he could during Jack’s last year at Samwell and his first year with the Falconers.

Bitty’s senior year had been a test of restraint and Jack had been embarrassed and panicked by close he came to monopolizing Bitty despite his best efforts, how much Bitty had been a crutch to buoy Jack through the season losses and all the media attention.

Shitty had fielded a lot of late night, usually at least semi-panicked, calls that year.

After Bitty graduated and took a PR internship in Worcester, the calls slowly tapered off over the two years before Jack moved back to Montreal. Jack still talked to Shitty, texts before and after games and seemingly random conversations about feminism, gender identity, sexual orientation, classism, and racism, but he reserved calling on the brink of an anxiety attack for when he nearly, or did, cost his team the game with some fuck up.

He didn’t talk much with Bitty anymore. The occasional texts during the season and a couple over the summer, but not the long meandering conversations they’d had when Bitty was at Samwell that spanned hundreds if not thousands of texts. Jack missed those conversations.

He followed Bitty’s twitter now, but it’s not quite the same. It lacks the in-jokes and the chirping and the intimacy of words shared with no one else. But, honestly, it was what Jack deserved so he wasn’t about to complain.

Didn’t stop him from digging out his phone and looking through Bitty’s feed and stalling again on the picture of Bitty and his boyfriend kissing at midnight, the chaos of the ball dropping in Times Square in the background.

The pang of envy was familiar, though less sharp than it had been when Bitty and his boyfriend had first started dating. And Jack should really get around to finding out and remembering Bitty’s boyfriend’s name at some point. Six months was a long time to put it off, and if Jack was going to invite Bitty and his boyfriend to a Habs home game at some point, he should probably be able to address the boyfriend.

Bitty deserved that, to be out and proud like he never thought he’d get to and able to introduce his boyfriend to people.

Jack wanted that, but he’s never been brave enough to fight for it before.

Looking back down at the picture, Jack remembered all those things Bitty had said about representation, how seeing that there were people like him out that had helped, had made sure he never thought that he was broken or wrong.

Jack hadn’t known the term bisexual until his freshman year at Samwell, confessing to Shitty that he liked girls and boys, though he leaned more towards boys.

He’d expected Shitty to tell him that was wrong, that it was some illness like his anxiety, that his overdose must’ve screwed up something in his head.

But Shitty had just nodded, said, “Bisexual, cool. Wanna grab something from the dining hall, man? I’m starving,” like Jack’s world hadn’t turned on its axis.

Jack’s nearly mid-season with the Habs, just signed a four year contract, and they were doing well. Might even have a shot at the Stanley Cup if the team kept it together. The Habs wouldn’t fire him. The PR guys would be falling over themselves to label the Habs as the most progressive team in the league.

The media would be vicious and insane.

His fingers hovered over speed-dial four, the publicist he shared with a couple guys on the Habs, something the PR guys had insisted on for all media risk players. Jack had made the short list because of his overdose.

Jack hit the button and brought the phone to his ear, hands sweaty in his gloves and shaking.

The line connected and he blurted, “I want to come out.”

“What?” Dan mumbled. "Jack, it’s three in the morning. Unless you’re being arrested or been seen with someone scandalous, it can probably wait until a reasonable hour.”

“I want to come out,” Jack repeated. “As bisexual.”

Dan groaned. “I like you, Jack. I really do. You’re a publicist’s dream, even if there’s memes on the internet about you being a Canadian hockey robot programmed in the 70s. So I’m not going to lie, coming out is going to be a shit show.”

“I know.”

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, eh? We’ve got a lot of work to do before this hits the newsstands.”


	2. pour te gagner

Eric grabbed the bags of mini-pies out of the trunk of Bob’s rental, and stared at the stadium.

“I’m not sure this was such a good idea, Bob,” Eric said, clammy hands clenching on the straps of the bags. “I mean, I know they’ve won the Stanley Cup—by goodness, that must feel like rapture—but they’re also probably tired and I can almost guarantee you that the nutritionists are going to bust their butts and mine when they find out about the pies. Really, Jack probably just wants to shower and then sleep for the next week. You saw him get checked into the boards four separate times, same as me. He probably just wants to go home and put ice on his shoulder, and I don’t want to be a bother, really, and the odds of him saying yes are so small, why, I’m not sure they’re worth mentioning. Just because he’s bi doesn’t mean he’d have any interest in me. This was a horrible idea, just awful. I should’ve—”

Bob placed his hand on Eric’s shoulder, saying calmly, “Breath, Eric.”

Eric took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry, Bob. Just a little nervous.”

“He’s going to say yes,” Bob told him firmly. “He’s going to open his box of mini-pies, he’s going to stare at them for five minutes like he doesn’t have a perfectly good brain between his ears, and he’s going to say yes.”

Eric wanted desperately to believe Bob. “We barely talk anymore. I talk to you and Alicia more than I talk to him.”

“But you still talk, Eric. And I know he follows you on twitter.”

Eric nearly dropped the mini-pies, saved only by Bob’s still lightning-fast reflexes. “ _What?_ Jack has twitter? Since when? And he follows me? Oh goodness, he saw me ranting about him, didn’t he? I can’t do this.”

“Eric,” Bob said gently, setting the pies down to grip Eric’s shoulders, “you need to calm down. Yes, Jack has a twitter. I’m not sure how long he’s had it, but the first I catch him on it was Christmas before last. He was chuckling and looking through your feed. If he saw any ranting about himself, he hasn’t brought it up to me.”

Eric nods, muttering, “Maybe he didn’t realize it was about him. I was deliberately vague, but Shitty picked up on it so who knows. Are you sure this is a good idea, Bob?”

“Yes, Eric. Now let’s get those pies delivered before the boys leave, eh?”

“Right,” Eric replied faintly, picking up the bags of pie and trailing after Bob.

Getting past security was easy as cake with Bad Bob Zimmerman paving the way.

The closer they got to the locker room, the more Eric’s desire to turn tail and run grew. By the time they were just outside, a single door separating them from the team, Eric was hysterically contemplating all the times Jack had told him to eat more protein and wondering if he should’ve brought meat pies instead.

Bob’s hand sat between Eric’s shoulder blades, ready to haul Eric in behind him if Eric’s nerves got the better of him. Eric wasn’t sure if that made Bob a true friend or an asshole.

“You boys decent for company?” Bob asked, sitting his head in the door. Eric couldn’t hear the reply, but it must’ve been positive since Bob pushed him and the pies through the door of the locker room.

Eric stared at the half-dressed Habs and the Habs stared right back. Jack was there towards the back, surprise written in the arch of his eyebrows and amusement in the upward curl of his lips.

“Um, hi, y’all. I brought pie?” Eric opened one of the bags and lifted out one of the mini-pie boxes.

Nineteen hockey players zeroed on the box in Eric’s hand as Bob laughed, assuring them, “Eric’s pies are addicting. You’ll never be any other pie again.”

“I don’t know,” Jack chirped, “Mama’s pies are pretty awesome and I used to have Bitty’s pies on a weekly basis.”

“Bitty?” one of the wingers repeated. “As in maple sugar crusted apple pie Bitty? As in whiskey maple tarts with pecans Bitty? _That_ Bitty’s bringing us pies?”

Eric flushed and glanced at Jack, who had his head half buried in his locker but Eric could still see the red tips of his ears. “Well, I brought a few different flavors of mini-pies since I wasn’t sure what y’all liked. I suppose I could’ve asked Jack, but that would’ve ruined the surprise. So I’ve got maple sugar crusted apple, cherry, blueberry, marionberry, and mixed berry. I made enough for everyone to have two, but there’s only so many of each—” Eric broke off as Jack’s teammates set upon him, tearing into the bags of pies like savages.

Eric was grateful they didn’t immediately smash the pies into their faces, but, goodness, it was like no one had ever mentioned the word manners to them. Then they got to the bottom of the right bag and Eric tried to pull the bag away, but a pair of Habs grabbed the bag, smirking as a third called back to Jack, “Hey, Zimms, Bitty’s got _seven_ mini-pies for you. Guess we all know who his favorite is, eh?”

Eric was fairly certain he hadn’t been this red since the one summer he and his cousins went out to Mason Lake and forgot to bring sunscreen. Bob, saint he was, took the bag back from the Habs. But instead of returning the bag, Bob—bless his evil little heart—presented it to Jack with a smirk.

Eric was never baking for Bob again. _Never_.

Jack glanced at Eric, arching an eyebrow and holding up the bag questioningly. Eric smiled nervously and nodded, forcibly biting his tongue to hold back the urge to ramble.

He watched as Jack carefully lifted the first of his pie boxes out of the bag, saw Jack frown at the numbers on them as he set them on the bench in a neat row. Eric couldn’t watch as he opened the lids and stared at his feet instead. The murmuring of the Habs got louder with each box Jack opened until they descended into a hollering chaos. Eric could pick out the phrases “lucky bastard,” “can’t turn down,” and “never seen someone use pie before.”

Bob patted him on the back and said, “What did I tell you, eh? Stunned speechless.”

Eric glanced at Jack and smiled at Jack’s dumbstruck expression as he stared at the pies. You’d think no one had ever asked the poor boy out for coffee before. Granted, most people didn’t do it with seven mini-pies that asked “COFFEE?” Eric liked to think of it as unique rather than weird.

Jack finally tore his gaze away from the pies and stared at Eric. “I thought you had a boyfriend? Tom or something?”

“Tod and I had a difference of opinion,” Eric replied evenly. Mainly that Tod thought being a biphobic asshole was okay and Eric most certainly did _not_. Eric couldn’t stand bigots. Amazing how growing up around them did that to a person. “So I’m completely free to make romantic overtures with pie.”

“Oh,” Jack said dully.

Bob sighed. “Jack, this is the part where you say, ‘I’d love to go out for coffee with you, Eric.’”

Jack blushed, mumbling, “Oh, right, um, yes. Coffee. Would be, um, good?”

Eric was torn between kissing Jack and chirping him, leaning heavily towards kissing him. But as much as Eric had dreamed about kissing Jack, he was not going to kiss Jack in front of his entire professional hockey team and his dad.

“How about next Saturday? Say ten o’clock at that coffee shop near Bell Center? I think it’s called Roi d’Aurore.”

Jack frowned. “You want to get coffee in Montreal? That seems wasteful to fly or drive that far just for coffee.”

Eric blinked at Jack and turned to Bob. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me what, eh?” Jack asked, glancing between Eric and Bob.

Bob shrugged and Eric shook his head, smiling. “Sorry, I thought he told you, seeing as it’s pretty much all he talks about since I mentioned it. I’m, um, moving to Montreal. Took a transfer to the Montreal branch of my PR firm. I start in a week, though I still need to find an apartment.”

“Ah,” Jack said quietly. After a moment, he blurted out, “I have a spare room."

Jack’s teammates exploded into sound, hooting and whistling as they called out, “Get it, Zimms!” and “He makes you pie and asks you for coffee and you ask him to move in already? Man, Zimms, you move fast.”

“Fuck off,” Jack shot back, blushing. “I just meant, I had a spare room. Where he could stay, if he wanted, while he looked for a place. Not like he snores like some of you bozos.”

That prompted another round of wolf-whistles, chirping, and hooting.

“Uh huh,” Bob muttered under his breath. “It’s got nothing to do with the fact Eric cooks like a five-star chef. His nutritionist will have fits.”

Eric flushed, but resolutely ignored them as he said to Jack, “Thank you for the offer, but Alicia’s already insisted I take the guest room at the house.”

Bob smirked at Jack. “Guess you’ll be over pretty frequently for a while, eh?”

Eric buried his head in his hands. “Oh goodness. I am so sorry, Jack.”

Jack bumped their shoulder together, murmuring, “Hey, as long as I get that coffee date and maybe a few more after, I don’t mind a little chirping .” He met Eric’s gaze and added, “You know the media’s going to be worse when they find out.”

Eric flapped his hand dismissively. “Who cares about some self-important blowhards I’ll never meet. I’m more concerned about your teammates liking me.”

“Bitty, you baked them pies. They _adore_ you.”


	3. You Could Be Happy (An AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An short little AU in which Tod is not a biphobic asshole, and Jack is left alone with his angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop listening to songs on repeat. They keep giving me ideas.
> 
> This was inspired by "You Could Be Happy" by Snow Patrol and A_Nonimouse's comment about how much heartbreak potential this fic had.

Jack saw him across the TD Garden rink, half in front of one of the Bruin’s d-men and talking to a couple reporters with cameras.

Jack hadn’t talked to Bitty in years, not since the text he’d sent after seeing Jack’s coming out press conference. _You were incredibly brave today, Jack. I’m happy that you no longer have to hide._

Now Bitty’s a few dozen meters away, faced away but recognizable by the slope of his shoulders, the comfortable slant of his hips, and the way his hands moved as he talked. Jack could see Bitty’s fiancé tucked up in the stands on the home team side.

There was a half formed thought at the back of Jack’s head of waiting and seeing if he couldn’t catch Bitty before he left. Talk to him, like old times. Catch up, maybe, like Jack wasn’t stalking Bitty’s twitter feed and living off secondhand gossip from Lardo. Like Jack wasn’t acutely aware that everyone else from Samwell had gotten a wedding invitation weeks ago, and the first Jack had heard of a set wedding date was a text from Shitty.

Jack heard Bitty laugh from across the rink, head thrown back and probably a bit red in the face and practically oozing Southern charm.

Jack shouldered his bag and headed for the exit.

Bitty seemed happy and it wasn’t Jack’s place to ruin that.


End file.
